


Visits to a Grave

by YouKnowNothinJonSno



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6910588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouKnowNothinJonSno/pseuds/YouKnowNothinJonSno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson spends a lot of time at Sherlock's grave trying to cope with his best friend's death.  A short look at five of these visits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visits to a Grave

John gently rubs the washcloth over the headstone. The words stare at him as he meticulously cleans them. _Sherlock Holmes._  


When the last of the graffiti is removed from the stone, John drops the damp cloth into the little bucket of water he brought with him. John sighs—not because of the mud staining his suit; not because of the amount of times he’s had to visit with the cloth and bucket to wash away the spray-painted ‘fraud,’ ‘fake,’ and ‘murderer’—but because the fact is simply this: John Watson misses his best friend.  


The tears collect in his eyes, but he never lets them out when he’s here. As if Sherlock can see him when he’s at the gravestone, and doesn’t want to deal with human emotion. He repeats his request, the ridiculous prayer he’s made into his traditional farewell to the polished rock marking the deathbed of the greatest detective in history: “Please, Sherlock. Don’t be dead.”  


He rises, and sniffs once—twice—but no water runs down his cheeks. Turning, John takes his bucket and cloth and walks dolefully towards his car. _Sherlock, I don’t believe you. The things you could do…no one could fake that, not all of it. You were…a hero. Yes, you said once that you weren’t, but you were, Sherlock. You were to me._  


John almost smiles to himself. _It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me._

* * *

“Thanks, Sarah,” John says before he exits the vehicle. “I owe you one.” He flinches at his own choice of words. I owe you. _I O U._  


“It’s no problem,” she replies lightly, though he can see right through the facade to the concern beneath. “You can’t help it that your car broke down, now, can you?”  


John nods, not even attempting a false smile, and steps out into the sun. The sun shining—what a rarity. It doesn’t suit a graveyard. John Watson, off to see Sherlock Holmes again. He’s always there, it seems recently, every day. If he could, he might not ever leave. But his friends won’t allow that. Well, not his friends, but the people who used to be his friends. John doesn’t have friends anymore. He only has one. The one in the ground.  


John is vaguely surprised to find no new graffiti on the marker. He isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Keeping his eyes on the marker, he sits down slowly in front of it, cross-legged. The words stare at him as boldly and keenly as Sherlock himself when he’s working a crime scene. It’s oddly soothing.  


They sit, the grave and the doctor, in silence, but their stares uphold a conversation. Nothing complicated, just:  
“Hello.”  
“Hello.”  
“I miss you.”  
“I know.”  
“Come back?”  
“I can’t.”  
“You’re my hero.”  
“You’re my blogger.”  
“Not anymore.”  
“I know.”  


It’s simple and it’s repetitive, but it’s a connection—a measly connection—to Sherlock. That’s all that matters. John’s muscles get stiff from sitting for so long, but he doesn’t move, until eventually his bladder becomes insistent. He reluctantly stands, and makes his way out of the cemetery and to the gas station across the street. _Graveyards should have bathrooms,_ he thinks in vague annoyance.  


By the time he returns, the stone isn’t talking to him anymore. The silence is uncomfortable now, so he speaks to it aloud. “Sherlock…when are you coming back?”  


No response.  


“Where are you?”  


Nothing.  


“If…if you could just tell me,” John hazards, “that you’re okay…I know I’m not important, but…just something, Sherlock, just…anything.”  


No one.  


“I need you,” he whispers at the engraving. “I miss you.” The stone is imperturbable. “Sherlock, I—”  


The grave marker cuts him off with silence. Dead silence. Somehow the sunny day makes everything darker.

* * *

“Happy birthday, Sherlock,” John mutters as he places the bouquet Mrs. Hudson had gotten for this purpose in front of the headstone. He smiles a little at the thought of Sherlock’s reaction to getting flowers on his birthday. “Mycroft told me,” he adds. Sherlock never would say when his birthday was. Not that he ever cared when John’s was, but John didn’t mind. Doesn’t. Still doesn’t.  


Soft footsteps amble up behind John. “He’d have hated them,” Mycroft comments, gesturing to the flowers.  


“I know,” John sighs, straightening.  


“Smoke?” Mycroft offers, holding out a cigarette.  


“No, I…” John trails off on his usual response. Impulsively, he reaches out and takes it. “Sure, thanks.”  


Mycroft lights their cigarettes as they both observe the cold stone that is so much heavier than what it weighs. John inhales a lungful of unfamiliar smoke, and coughs loudly for a minute before he recovers and tries again. Less coughing this time. On his third try, he manages to stifle the coughs altogether. The two continue to smoke in silence. Not companionable silence, and not uncomfortable silence, just silence, as if they are each alone at the final resting place of the only consulting detective.  


It isn’t until they’ve smoked their cigarettes down to the filters, that they seem to reenter into reality. Mycroft crushes his butt underfoot, and John follows suit. “I don’t smoke,” John feels the need to say, not tearing his gaze from the black stone.  


“Nor do I,” Mycroft replies simply, and they share a moment of unspoken understanding.  


“You loved him,” John can’t seem to prevent his mouth from blabbing.  


“Yes.”  


“He’s not dead,” John says, quietly but strongly. “He can’t just be dead. It doesn’t make sense.”  


“John,” Mycroft reproaches. His eyes are disappointed and pained, like he should know better. The silence returns, until Mycroft turns without a farewell and sweeps away with his favorite black umbrella-cane.  


“He’s not dead,” John repeats softly to the empty, humid air.

* * *

“Keep the change,” John mutters distractedly as he pays the cabbie. With an appreciative response, the man drives away, leaving John in the graveyard that he spends more time in than his own home. Aside from his bucket and cloth, he is alone in the light rain.  


John trudges up the rows he’s memorized, names he knows by heart, until he reaches the stone with the name he both craves and despises to see carved there. _Of all the people on earth, this man was undoubtedly one of the greatest. Why do the best always die young?_  


“No, no, no,” he whispers as he kneels beside the marker. Graduating from paint, the miscreants had now scratched the words right onto the rock. ‘Fake’ is repeated at least three times across the defaced gravestone. ‘Fraud’ is the the biggest, right below Sherlock’s name. John rubs at it with the cloth, but it does’t fade. “Come on,” he mutters, and this time the water that has gathered in his eyes does fall, staining his cheeks as he scrubs away in vain. “Come on, come on,” he repeats—growls—and finally he collapses against the stone. He doesn’t have the vocabulary to articulate the pain he’s feeling—all there is is a wordless scream.  


The drizzle becomes a downpour, but John doesn’t seek refuge under trees. He grasps at the gravestone, hugging it to him like he can coax Sherlock Holmes himself out of it. “Don’t be dead, don’t you dare be…you can’t…” His mumblings trail off as he finally seems to accept the truth. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.  


Tears stop forming in his eyes, and the agony is muffled by a cold sort of numbness. His emotions pack themselves neatly away, and all that’s left are the words on that grave marker. All that is left is a shell of what he used to be.

* * *

“Mrs. Hudson,” John repeats calmly, “I’ve decided. I’m moving out.”  


“Just because he’s gone,” she protests sternly, “doesn’t mean you have to go too.”  


John sighs. “It’s not just that. I can’t keep up the rent.”  


“Oh, don’t worry about that!” Mrs. Hudson chirps. “I’ll bring the price down, just for you.”  


“Mrs. Hudson,” John cuts in, brows drawn in seriousness, “I’m leaving. Goodbye.” Without further adieu, the doctor strides out the door of the shop, and hails a taxi. Mrs. Hudson looks after him mournfully. She knows where he’s going.  


Dr. Watson interacts as little as possible with the driver on the way to the graveyard. When there, he pays and waits until the cab has left to make his way to his friend’s tomb.  


The air feels strange today, like a second skin on John’s body. He fidgets uncomfortably as he comes to a stop before the gravestone. For some reason, he can’t quite look at it, as if it really is Sherlock and John has bad news. “I…well,” John starts awkwardly, looking anywhere but at the tomb. Finally, he clears his throat and looks down at his hands. _This is silly._  


John stares at the black stone, and tries again. “I’m moving out, Sherlock. Couldn’t keep it up, not with you gone. I…. It reminds me too much of you. And I can’t…live with that. I come here, all the time, wishing, hoping, begging you to be alive, and every day you disappoint me. I need to move on. I need to….” John’s voice fails him. So do his knees. Kneeling before the emotionless rock, John cries.  


A figure appears from behind a nearby tree. His face is in shadow, impossible to make out. He doesn’t come any closer to the man he’s been watching for over a year, even though he desperately wants to. But he knows he can’t keep hiding anymore. Not while this man he cares so deeply for is suffering.  


The doctor sobs as rain drizzles down through the trees.  


“John,” Sherlock says.


End file.
